A Field Guide to Deception
Page 26
Simon carried something each trip: a small bag, or some towels, a handful of books. Claire stayed on the deck. She could not assist with this anymore. Could not be party to Liv’s leave-taking.
When the tailgate slammed shut, the sound shook through her. Several minutes later, their voices nearby, Simon’s plaintive, and Liv said that she would. They went indoors.
At four, the moose came. Picking through the meadow as though he’d lost something, and then, on his way back, he stopped in the open, and looked toward Claire. He could not see her, though he probably smelled her.
Liv came out again eventually, lit a cigarette on the deck. Said that Simon had fallen asleep on the couch. Asleep. For him now, Liv’s last visit would be a prelude, a dream. Claire stared at the field where the moose had been.
“I liked New York,” Liv said.
Claire nodded, held onto the rail of the deck.
“I hope you and Simon will be happy there.”
“Me too.”
Claire pushed off the deck and walked toward the trees, she could manage no more.
At Bailey’s, their last night in town, Claire stayed in the room with Simon until he’d fallen asleep, and then came out for beer, and some pizza Bailey had baked.
“What do you think of the new girl?” Claire asked.
“She’s always bitching at me about labeling my receipts. You never did that.”
“I knew what your receipts were for.”
“Yeah. She’s not you.”
“Thanks.” Claire picked the mushrooms off the pizza, ate them first. Remembered a trail through the woods, her aunt crouched beside small white parasols of matsutake.
“I’ve got tickets to visit you next month,” Bailey said.
“Have you?” Claire had never imagined this.
“Enough time for all your boxes to be empty, and your guest room comfortable.” Bailey opened another beer, handed it to Claire. “I’ll miss you. You get that, right?”
“I’ll miss you too.”
“Julia wants to go to Prague this summer. Does that sound like fun to you?”
“I’ve never been to Prague.”
“I’ve been pushing for Holland.”
“I’ve never been there either.”
“God, Claire, we’ve got to get out of this town.”
“I am.”
“Right. Maybe Holland and Prague.” She plated another piece of pizza. “Where will I get my kid fix with Simon gone?”
“I guess you’ll have to visit a lot.”
“Now you’re getting it.”
Claire laughed, patted Bailey’s foot rested on the chair beside her.
Liv sat up, pulled from her sleeping bag, and slid her jeans back on. Outside, the rain fell thin and light. A block away, she heard a girl call out a name, and then laugh. The streetlights blinked red through downtown. She walked up Monroe, crossed at Tenth, down toward the bluff, to Bailey’s sleeping house. She’d tried, once, to pick up a girl, and had abandoned the scenario the moment the girl responded. She could not bear anyone else’s hands.
With four jobs going at once, she’d started to forget to eat, had dropped weight she couldn’t afford to lose. In the afternoons, she’d walk down to the river, fling rocks into the water, ache for Simon, for summer, for those nights on the deck drinking wine. While she stood on the sidewalk outside Bailey’s house, smoking half a pack of cigarettes: the rain stopped, the sky lightened, the crows squawked.
Kyle had connections, and enough jobs lined up for the summer that she’d need to hire another dozen people to work her crews. She could fill her life with this. She could. She had to. Love like this would ruin her. She’d claimed that girl in the snow without hesitating. She’d meant to save the girl, believed she could, but she hadn’t saved either of them—not the girl, or Claire. She’d played savior, and written a story neither could tell—an accident she hadn’t experienced, couldn’t know, had only judged from its aftermath: a dead woman, and Claire to blame. Crime-spree Claire.
A guy in a suit climbed into his car, two women ran past with their dogs. And then Bailey’s door opened and Simon came outside, dragging his tiger backpack. He waved to Liv.
Behind him, his mother stopped on the stairs, said something to Bailey. Claire followed Simon down, Drake and Bailey behind her. Claire opened the backdoor, stowed the last two bags. Liv hugged Simon, loaded him in his car seat. Bailey and Drake kissed them both goodbye.
Liv held Claire. Stepped back, wiped her face. Claire climbed into the car and started it, rolled down the windows, pulled away; Simon calling, “See you tomorrow.”
Epilogue:
Twelve years later
His mother is tense. This alone keeps him from sulking, dragged to Spokane for a funeral in the middle of term. He will miss two soccer games, and has had to lug all of his books with him, scribble his assignments on the food tray during the flight over, and—Calculus, an interminable misery—back to Ithaca.
In the rental car now, the day bright and warm just to spite him, his mother announces they’re on the South Hill, and nearly there.
“Lovely hill,” he says. She laughs, and his mood slides away, just like that. “It’ll be good to see Bailey.”
“Yes. Bailey is always good.”
He hasn’t been back here since they left. Twelve years. They pull up in front of a Cape Cod, the dormers like raised eyebrows. He doesn’t remember this house, wonders if he’s ever been here.
“I’ll get the bags,” he says.
She thanks him, climbs from the car, and stands in the street, looking up and down the block, and finally at the house.
“Hey,” his mother says, arm extended in greeting.
Bailey has sprung from the house, and is going to kill herself on the stairs. He steps toward her, hands raised against calamity, and she catches into him, pulls his mother into their embrace as well. The both of them crush him, murmuring and crying. Here less than two minutes and already they’re crying.
“Oh, Bailey,” she says, “I’m so sorry.”
“I can’t believe you’re here. I thought you wouldn’t come.” Bailey releases his mother, but strains backward to stare at him. “Jesus, you’re bigger every time I see you. How’s that possible? Your mother’s so little.”
“Hey,” she objects, and swats Bailey.
“Thank you for coming, Simon. I’m sorry you’re missing your games.”
“It’s OK,” he says. “I don’t mind.” He wants to say something consoling, but can’t. He’s taller than she is now, and can see that her blond hair has washed grey. All these years of Bailey’s visits, the pile of loot she never fails to bring him, and this is the first time he has thought of her as old. She links her arm through his mother’s and they walk ahead of him to the house.
Inside, the hardwood floor, and each step on the stairs, creaks as Bailey guides them to the guest rooms. Something delicious—croissants, he hopes—is baking. The house is rich with it: cinnamon and dough.
He takes longer washing up than his mother does, and interrupts them in the kitchen. His mother’s tension has increased.
“Do you drink coffee, Simon?” Bailey asks.
“Sure.”
“Latte?”
“Sure.”
He loves the sound of steam. A timer dings, and she turns from the espresso machine to remove a bunt-cake pan from the oven. Not croissants, then. His mother is standing in the threshold, with the exterior door opened, her coffee raised to her lips as though she might rinse her face with it. Morning light makes her ageless; it wings from her glasses, and the door’s pane. She’d brought a pile of student papers with her to grade on the plane, complaining, as always, of lax scholarship. She didn’t sleep on the flight, as he had. Yet she doesn’t seem fatigued now, but wired, expectant.
Bailey sets his coffee beside him, and sits at the table. “We’ll eat as soon as it’s cooled. I have fruit too, mango.”
Bailey’s in jeans, a pale green sleeveless s
weater, striking by any standard, long-legged with veiled eyes and an easy manner. And he’s aware of this—her desirability—in a sorrowful way, as though it were not a gift.
“I never thought I’d see your mother in this town again.” Bailey says this to him, though his mother must hear. “Do you remember this house?”
So he has been here before. He stares around him, the kitchen a marvelous room of copper pots and china, spices in uniform jars displayed in steel baskets, a large painting of an umbrella tipped back like some struggling insect on the wall above the table. Nothing jars his mind.
“No,” he says, wishing he could.
Up again, she takes a knife, and plates, to the stove. “Are you hungry, Claire?”
His mother crosses to Bailey, wraps around her. He wants to be elsewhere, and here observing, simultaneously. This intimacy shames him, this grief.
“Yes,” his mother says at last, and picks up a plate.
He wants to ask about Drake, finds himself listening for her voice. He is so used to them—Bailey and Drake—that he forgets.
His mother hands him a plate with a sort of battlement on it—the bricks of a castle wall rolled in cinnamon—beside slices of mango.
“Monkey bread,” Bailey says, in response to the hesitant poise of his fork. “You’ll love it.”
“You always say that,” he grins. He bites into a chunk, and finds himself kneeling on a kitchen chair, a helmet on his head, his mother across from him eating cantaloupe, her leg propped on the chair beside her. She is impossibly young—without glasses—her hair dark and shorn, one strap of her white tank top has slid down her arm. And then, another woman leans into his mother, and kisses her. The woman is like his mother—a twin, he thinks—and then knows that she is not, that his mother and this woman are not twins, not likenesses, but dualities, light and dark, the two of them, bowed into one another and then looking across at him, their voices bright with laughter.
In Bailey and Drake’s kitchen—just Bailey’s now—his mother has raised her head, alert to the sound of boots on the stairs, the rap of knuckles at the kitchen door.
Another bite: his helmet tipped back on his head, the kiss, and laughter. This is what he remembers, the story he tells himself.
The woman who comes into the kitchen now is slight and rough, his mother’s shadow rather than her twin. But she was never her twin.
“Claire,” Liv says, her voice as rough as her work boots. Liv has had twelve years to think of something elegant to say. Twelve years dreaming the river, a boy with a boat, Claire in her arms—always in her arms. She wants to say that she leaves that stone house, Claire injured and disoriented on the couch, bleeding when Liv leaves her, always leaves her, closes the kitchen door, walks into the blizzard, only to find herself back in the living room, leaving, again, the woman on the couch. Wants to say it is fresh each time, the hurt in her. But, “Claire,” is what comes out. “Claire.”
At the table, Simon takes another bite, and his gesture draws her focus. She turns toward him. He is so familiar that she finds herself grinning.
“Simon,” Bailey says. “You remember Liv.”
“Hey, Liv,” he says, and grins back at her. “Have some of this monkey bread. You’ll love it.”
Acknowledgments
To Kelly Smith for your ruthless logic and clear-sightedness: You make me a better writer.
To Kym Neck, Erin Culver, and Lillie Petrillo for reading 25-page serials: You kept me honest.
To Carole Boswell and Steve Capellas for thorough, invaluable procedural advice.
To Bett Norris for encouragement in the clutch.
To Caroline Curtis for dots and crosses and keen insight.
And to my family, for every exquisite meal.
Some of the places named in this novel exist—including Spokane; this is a work of fiction.
Of all the mushroom guides, I referred most frequently to the slender volume Common Mushrooms of the Northwest by J. Duane Sept because of the lovely color photographs.
Bywater Books represents the coming of age of lesbian fiction. We’re committed to bringing the best of contemporary lesbian writing to a discerning readership. Our editorial team is dedicated to finding and developing outstanding voices who deliver stories you won’t want to put down. That’s why we sponsor the annual Bywater Prize. We love good books, just like you do.
For more information about Bywater Books and the annual Bywater Prize for Fiction, please visit our website.
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RED AUDREY AND THE ROPING
Jill Malone
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Fight or flight? Jane Elliott has tried both. Surfing, letting the waves take her. Teaching Latin, clutching at its rules to feel safe. Safe from a lover, safe from her friends, safe from her mother’s death—and her guilt. And now she lies in a hospital bed, alone.
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THE GIRLS CLUB
Sally Bellerose
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SHAKEN AND STIRRED
Joan Opyr
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Poppy Koslowski is trying to recover from a hysterectomy, but her family has other ideas. She’s the one with the responsibility to pull the plug on her alcoholic grandfather in North Carolina. So she’s dragged back across the country from her rebuilt life into the bosom of a family who barely notice the old man’s imminent death.
Plunged into a crazy kaleidoscope of consulting doctors, catching fire with an old flame, and negotiating lunch venues with her mother and grandmother, Poppy still manages to fall in love. Because nothing in the Koslowski family is ever straightforward. Not even dying.
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VERGE
Z Egloff
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—Alison Bechdel, author of Fun Home
Claire has three goals: to stay sober, to stay away from sex, and to get into film school. A drunken affair with her professor’s wife means she might just have blown all three at once. Stuck without the camera she needs to complete her course work, she turns to Sister Hilary at the community center for help. Sister Hilary has a camera to lend, but the price is recruiting Claire as a reluctant volunteer. The only trouble is, Claire’s more attracted to Sister Hilary than to helping out. Claire ought to know there’s no future with a nun, but can’t this two-timing, twelve-stepping, twenty-something film freak get a chance at happiness?